Because it was Jily Week
by Zeeah
Summary: All my Jily Week drabbles in one place. Cries, laughs, wails, snorts, giggles, sobs, and yes, feels. Enjoy! (or maybe not)
1. 1st September, 1966

Day One

Prompt: Childhood

**Extraordinary**

The afternoon of 30th September, 1966 is quite, quite ordinary.

A chubby Lily Evans and her mum are to be found on their front lawn, the girl propped up on a swing with her mother gently pushing her.

"Mum, what's a witch?"

Even at the tender age of 6, Lily harbours a deep love for books and greatly relishes the hours spent with either of her parents (or Tuney, who has decided she can read perfectly well, thank you very much) reading out stories to her that speak of witches and wizards and magical beasts.

Stifling a smile at the ever-present curious green glint in her youngest daughter's eyes, Rose Evans pretends to stroke an imaginary beard before answering, "Well, a Witch is someone who flies around the world on a special broomstick and visits good little girls everywhere."

Her tiny rosebud lips forming an awed "O" at her mother's reply, Lily eagerly asks, "Does she grant all the good girlies wishes, then, Mum? Do tell me I've been good! I have, haven't I? I want a wish, Mum!"

Laughing, Rose pinches her pink cheeks and assures her,

"Of course you have, darling! Why, I've heard Witches are especially fond of girls with red hair and green eyes,"

Miming surprise, she covers her mouth with a hand and gasps, "Gosh, Lil! Don't you have _exactly_ those?"

Eyes widening into huge orbs of green, Lily tugs at a strand of scarlet and squeals in pure, childish delight.

"Mum! Look! Oooh, when do _I_ get a visit then? Please oh please let my Witch come soon!"

Rose tucks an unruly lock behind Lily's ear.

"Soon, dear. Very soon."

Unable to contain her excitement, Lily pushes at the swing with all her might.

In front of her very eyes, Rose Evans watches her little redheaded 6-year-old soar high; higher than a mere garden swing can possibly go; let go of the sides, and fly, yes, _fly_ gracefully through the air before landing softly on the green, green grass in front of her.

"I'm gonna be a Witch, Mum." announces her lilting voice before she skips off to do whatever little girls do when they're not flying off swings and frightening their poor mothers out of their very _wits_.

It is then, that Rose Evans decides that her youngest daughter is nothing even _remotely_ ordinary.

In precisely five years time, she realizes just _how_ right she was.

**A/N**: Hope you liked it! Review if you dream of flying off swings, too ;)

~Z


	2. When Bored

Day One

Prompt: Childhood

**When Bored**

James Potter is bored.

Stuff-your-elbow-into-your-gob-and-lick-it-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life-bored.

And let me tell you, that is _no _mean joke.

_It's just that_, he fumes silently, _why won't_ anybody _play with him?_

All James wants is his mummy to pick him up and zoom him around, accompanying his favourite game with those funny _whooshing_ sounds she makes.

James _really_ likes _whooshing_.

_Hmm_.

_Should he perhaps try those noises he usually makes when he gets the growlies in his tummy?_

_No, _he decides_. Last time he did that, she had just given him a _Look_ and popped a bottle of that white, icky gunk into his mouth. Eurgh._

James _really_ hates white, icky gunk.

Bear that in mind.

Clutching a tuft of jet-black hair in his chubby little fist (he has found he quite likes it there), James thinks.

_What if he makes a stinky? _

_Ah, that always seems to catch her instant attention. Also, it's fun, _James remembers with a gurgle_._

And so, he tries. And tries. And tries.

Fists clenched into tiny balls of pure grit, dark little brow furrowed in determination, he pushes. And pushes. And pushes.

Alas, to no avail.

No matter how much he pours the whole of his ten month-old soul into it, the stinky just. Won't. Come.

Tested to the very limits of his tolerance now, James is _mad_.

_Honestly, mummy, is it so hard to look up and notice the misery of your only child, _James thinks_. _

_Very well. Desperate times call for desperate measures. _

And so, James takes a deep breath, rounds his mouth into a wide 'O' and prepares to wail his little lungs out.

And right about then, to his utter and delightful surprise, his tall, stately mummy swivels around from the kitchen table, and gently floats through the air towards him, landing with a musical _flump _right in front of his high chair.

Beaming dazzlingly, James looks up at his darling mummy with that brilliantly deceptive innocent _look_, practised and perfected by babies everywhere.

You can imagine the look on her face then.

And _that_ is explicitly why James Potter performs his very first bit of real magic, aged precisely ten months, five days, seven hours and seventeen minutes.

Because he was bored.

_Really_, who can blame him?

**A/N**: Haha, so that was baby James and his mental ramblings. Review if you wish you could fly your mum anywhere you wanted to! x)

~Z


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